


a comedy of sneezes

by R00bs_Teacup



Series: sickfic where Porthos is sick because you know... [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, Other, Sickfic, nothing happens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-02
Updated: 2017-02-02
Packaged: 2018-09-21 15:43:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9555701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R00bs_Teacup/pseuds/R00bs_Teacup
Summary: Porthos is sick, Athos is sick, Aramis is... not sick. They... don't do much. Athos and Porthos sneeze and cough at Aramis. Oh, wait, no, there's sex. Sort of. kind of.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CanadianGarrison](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CanadianGarrison/gifts).



> Seriously, does anyone wanna be my full time title comer uper with? 
> 
> CG prompted me. Oh hey that rhymes

Porthos is a big man. He’s got wide shoulders and muscular arms and a broad back and a big stomach, and that’s not even starting on his thighs. Aramis would expect him to be the kind of man who sneezed like a hurricane. But, no, his sneezes are soft and quiet. 

“Bless you, honey,” Aramis says, after the eighth such, putting down his tablet and scooting out from behind his desk. “You have got to get off my couch.”

“But I’m sick,” Porthos says, head popping out from under Aramis’s coat. “Athos gave me his lurgy.”

Aramis scoots backwards to avoid the three sneezes that burst from Porthos. 

“Yes, so I see. So go home, where Athos and his lurgy are, and lurgy together. Why are you even here?” Aramis says, looking around his office. “Babe, you don’t even work here! You don’t even work close to here!”

“Stop yelling at me.”

“Go home.”

Porthos sneezes, snuffles, and stands, scattering Aramis’s coat, Porthos’s jacket, a blanket unearthed from god knew where, and the tiny teddy bear with a heart off of Aramis’s desk. It was a gift from Henry years and years ago. Aramis rubs his face and looks up at Porthos. He’s hugging himself and looks exhausted and as if he’s about to sneeze again. Which he does. Ten times in a row, ending up bent over coughing. 

“What’s the problem?” Aramis asks, with a sigh. “Come on, sit down, tell me why you’re here.”

Porthos takes the guest chair and huddles in it, his hulking form dwarfing the chair but somehow still looking small. Aramis can’t help getting up and going to embrace him, letting Porthos lean into him. Even though it means getting coughed and sneezed on. 

“Bless. What’s the matter?” Aramis says, stroking Porthos’s head. 

“I just wanted you,” Porthos whispers. “Didn’t know if you’d come home.”

“Alright, lovely. I’m here, though, and of course I’m coming home,” Aramis says. “That’s just a bad dream. Do you have a fever? Have you been having nightmares?”

“Haven’t been asleep,” Porthos says, before coughing roughly. Aramis smoothes the hair off his forehead. 

“You feel feverish. Come on, I’ll work from home today. You need looking after, and Athos has probably either burnt the house down or given up and passed out on the sofa by now,” Armais says. 

“But work,” Porthos says, looking up at Aramis. His eyes are glassy, and he’s flushed and sweaty. Aramis isn’t sure how he missed the fever before now.

“I’m the boss, I can take the afternoon off,” Aramis says. “What about you, by the way?”

“They sent me home when I turned up this morning. Apparently they don’t want the kids catching this,” Porthos says. “I wouldn’t give it to the kids. They’re only babies.”

“You don’t have control over your germs, Pip. We’ve talked about this.”

“I washed my hands, I had hand sanitizer,” Porthos says. “I’d have fought. Stupid day care rules.”

“Ok. But it’s two pm and you’ve only been here half an hour. What’ve you been doing all day?”

“I fell asleep in the car,” Porthos says, grimacing. “My back hurts. And my neck.”

“Wow. Ok, sleepy. Come on. Home time. You’ve had a shit day.”

“Yeah. I’ve had a bad one,” Porthos says plaintively, letting Aramis go so he can gather his stuff. 

They have a house on the outskirts of town, as of a few months ago when they moved in together. It’s two stories with an attic and a basement, and has two bedrooms, an office, and a conservatory that they use as an extra living slash work slash privacy room, which looks out over the garden. There’s also a shed that Porthos and Athos converted to a large, heated outdoor studio space with electric strip lighting and huge windows, for Aramis to work in. Athos loves gardening. It’s perfect. Well, it would be perfect if Athos didn’t decide that cold-ridden was the perfect state in which to garden. 

“Athos!” Aramis yells, standing at the gate round to the back garden, hands on his hips. Athos, bundled up in hat coat scarf gloves, looks up and waves. “Get over here!”

Porthos comes too, from the car, trailing sadly to Aramis’s side and sagging against him in a limp, pathetic droop. Athos stands in front of Aramis with an eyebrow raised. His innocence is ruined by two violent sneezes and a cough. Porthos coughs too, as if in sympathy, and moans, turning his head into Aramis’s neck. 

“I feel poorly,” Porthos says. 

“Did I give you the lurgy?” Athos asks. “I’m all better. I’ll take care of you. Aramis can go back to work.”

Athos wraps himself around Porthos and peels him away from Aramis, leading him into the house through the back. Aramis follows with a heavy sigh. Between the two of them, they hit every single ‘bad sick person’ trope in the universe. Whiny, grumpy, stubborn, pretending to be fine, insisting they’re fine, refusing help. Aramis puts the kettle on and heads to the livinrgroom with a pot of tea. In time to see Athos and Porthos settling down to The Ring. 

“Athos! Turn that off! You can’t watch that when Porthos has a fever,” Aramis says, stalking over to eject the DVD. 

“Why not?” Porthos says, peeking out from behind Athos’s shoulder, where he’s hiding, hugging Athos around the waist. “I’ll be fine.”

“He’ll be fine,” Athos says, nodding. Then sneezes. Violently. 

Athos is quite a small man, all things considered. Compact, shorter than both Aramis and Porthos and d’Artagnan, though his hair makes him taller when it’s all fluffed from bed. His sneezes, though, are the kind of sneezes you expect to come out of Porthos. Who is now also sneezing. Over and over, tiny little soft things into cupped hands where he’s pressed against Athos. 

“Aw, does that hurt your head? It used to hurt mine, before I got better,” Athos says. 

“Ath, you’re not better,” Aramis says. “Why don’t you two watch something nice? I know! What Big Hero Six.”

“No, it’s too sad,” Athos says. “It’ll upset Porthos.”

“Fine. Lewis?” Aramis suggests, looking at their DVDs.

“Dead people? Are you nuts?” Athos says, covering Porthos’s ears. 

“What do you suggest?” Aramis asks. 

“The Ring,” Porthos and Athos say at once, and both start laughing, which makes them cough in stereo. 

Aramis puts Elementary on. He can’t get the other two to agree on anything, so he watches what he wants. He sits the other side of Porthos, and he and Athos take it in turns getting Porthos to sip tea and take paracetamol. He falls asleep between episodes and Athos wraps around him, resting his head on his arm where it’s twined over Porthos’s big shoulder, and falls asleep too. Aramis takes the chance to get a bit of work done. Fatty Lumpkin, Porthos’s corgi lab mix, comes and jumps up between Aramis and Porthos. 

Porthos coughs in his sleep, and everytime he does his breathing gets deeper at first, which shifts Athos, and changes the balance of the sofa, which disturbs Fatty Lumpkin. Which annoys Aramis and makes working hard. Porthos’s coughing also makes it hard. Eventually Aramis gives up with a sigh, putting his tablet aside and getting off the sofa, Fatty Lumpkin wobbling after him. He goes to get pillows and a duvet and then crouches to cradle Porthos’s cheek, kissing his forehead and stroking his hair. Porthos grunts and pulls his head away, twisting his neck. Aramis shifts closer and hushes him. 

“Come on, love. Wake up a minute,” Aramis whispers. “I want to get you lying down.”

“Nn,” Porthos says, huffing out a breath and then panting, trying to get away from Athos and Aramis both. “Nn. No. Hnn.”

“Wake up, Pip. You’re dreaming,” Aramis says. 

Porthos’s eyes slit open, damp and glassy, and he stares at Aramis for a minute, breathing hard, before coughing and turning into the back of the sofa with a moan. Aramis passes him the water bottle and a couple of paracetamol, then guides him to lie down against the mound of pillows. Athos goes with him, still sacked out against his back he just kind of falls after Porthos and lies snoring in the tiny space between Porthos and the sofa back. Aramis snorts, stifling laughter, and Porthos gives him a long, confused look. 

“Just laughing at Athos,” Aramis whispers. “Go back to sleep.”

Porthos coughs and his eyes flutter shut on another moan. Aramis frowns and reaches out to test the heat of his skin again, and then to brush his cheek, cradle his face. 

“Are you alright?” Aramis murmurs. Porthos nods distractedly, pressing his face into the pillow. “You seem like you’re in pain. Achy?”

“Mmmm,” Porthos says. 

“Better lying down?” Aramis asks. Porthos nods again, and then starts snoring. Aramis laughs quietly, gets Fatty Lumpkin to curl around Athos and Porthos’s feet, and then goes to work in the armchair. 

Everything’s quiet and peaceful for a while, except Athos and Porthos trading off snores, Porthos coughing and occasional mutterings in his sleep. Then Athos wakes up to have a sneezing fit that sounds painfully violent. He sits up after the fourth, a hand to his chest, and rests against the back to the sofa. Aramis gets him tissues and a fresh pot of tea and kneels behind the sofa so he can stroke Athos’s hair when he’s done, cradle his head. 

“Still feeling poorly afterall,” Aramis says. 

“No need to rub it in,” Athos croaks. “I think my nose fell off.”

Athos sneezes into the sofa, then. 

“Nope, still there,” Aramis says, laughing. 

“You laugh too much at sick people,” Athos says. “How did we get lying down?”

“I did it. I laughed while doing it, though, so you still have the high-ground. Lie back down, sleep’s the best thing for you.”

“No. It makes my nose run. I’m going to shower, and then make dinner,” Athos says. “Make something nice for Porthos.”

“He’s feverish, sweetheart. He won’t eat much,” Aramis says, stroking Athos’s hair. “He might like a little buttery toast, though.”

“He loves buttery toast,” Athos mutters, sagging against the cushions. 

“Mm, he does,” Aramis whispers, scritching Athos’s scalp. “Even eats it with an upset stomach, I’m sure he’ll manage it with a fever. We can get you some soup, and something warm. A big jumper, one of Porthos’s old soft ones. 

“Nice,” Athos whispers, eyes shut, hand loosening around his tissues. Aramis hums and softens, slows, his voice. 

“Yeah. I’ll look after you both. Nice hot shower, nice hot food, snuggly clothes.”

Athos sighs, and it becomes a snore when he breathes in. Aramis supports him, laying him back down against Porthos. He’ll get snot on Porthos’s t-shirt, but it’s not like Porthos will care, and Athos could really do with the rest. That’s the worst bit about Athos getting sick. Porthos gets the coughs and fevers and chills, and Athos doesn’t rest, doesn’t sleep, and drags it out. Aramis finishes up his work and starts on dinner. Fatty Lumpkin comes out to help. Or to beg her own dinner. Aramis feeds her and feeds himself, then makes soup for Athos to be warmed up, and puts bread in the toasted for when Porthos wakes up. Which, judging by the gasped breath and flurry of little sneezes, has just happened. Aramis puts the toaster on and goes through to the livingroom. Porthos is pressed into his pillows, but when Aramis crouches he looks up, glassy eyes wet with tears. 

“Oh dear,” Aramis says, leaning close to wrap an arm over Porthos. “Hey, bad dream?”

“Jus’ tired,” Porthos whispers, rubbing sleepily at his face. 

“I’m making you some toast, and Athos is going to have soup and I need to shower, then bed. Hmm?”

“Sounds good,” Porthos says, snuffling. “You’re not leaving me?”

“No. No, honey. Never.”

“I feel so stupid,” Porthos says, around a trembly breath. “But I just.. I get scared.”

“I know. I know. I’m not leaving, never will,” Aramis says. “I love you too much. I really love you, both of you. So much.”

Porthos nods, pressing himself close to Aramis, reaching back to where Athos’s hand has flopped against his shoulder, taking hold. It wakes Athos, who grumbles, but then wraps himself around Porthos from behind, resting his head against Porthos’s, looking up at Aramis’s. He looks sad. Aramis kisses him, impulsively. 

“You’ll get sick too, now,” Athos says. 

“You’ll look after me,” Aramis says. “Look, Porthos, you have us both. See?”

“Yeah, we’ve got you,” Athos says. 

“I’m hungry, though, so you’ll have to let go,” Porthos says, and takes a shaky breath, coughing hard into Aramis’s shirt. Athos sneezes. 

“Jesus, guys,” Aramis says. “Bless you, Ath. Athos will stay all tangled around you, I’ll get the food.”

Porthos nods, still coughing. Athos sneezes again as Aramis gets to the kitchen. Aramis takes a tray through and settles on the sofa between the two of them. Fatty Lumpkin comes through, sniffing for food. Porthos feeds her bits of toast, eating just a bit himself, listless and limp against Aramis’s side, heat radiating off him. Athos drinks his soup and takes some of Porthos’s toast to dip, which is a positive sign. He also sits up through most of dinner. 

“Maybe you are starting to feel better,” Aramis says, smiling, reaching over to feel Athos’s forehead even though he’s not had a fever.

“A little,” Athos says. “Sleep helps.”

“Makes you less stubborn, too,” Aramis says, and gets a dazzling smile of innocence in return. “Uh oh.”

“I think I might be sick,” Porthos says, distracting Aramis. 

Which, Aramis realises later, after Porthos has decided he’s not going to vomit afterall and climbed into bed and Athos has trailed Aramis to the shower and got naked and followed him in and pressed him against the wall and is busy kissing him, was the point. 

“I hate it when you two, oh!” Aramis says. “Nice. When you work as a team… mmm.”

“Yeah, it’s terrible,” Athos says. “Tell me you’d have agreed to this.”

“No, you’re sick, you should be… oh… no, no sleeping, just keep doing that,” Aramis says, tugging gently on Athos’s hair. Athos sneezes violently at him. “Bless you. I don’t care, sneeze whenever, I like this too much.”

Athos grins up at him. And doesn’t stop. They crawl into bed twenty minutes later, very clean. Athos says it’s helped his sinuses, and Aramis thinks he means sex for a bit and scoffs, before realises he means the steam. Which makes Athos giggle like mad and wakes Porthos, who’s snuffly and unhappy and coughing and kind of disgustingly snotty. They hug him from either side anyway, though, because he has done the same for them in the past. He snuggles down between them and cries for a bit, but mostly because of the fever. They assure him easily and soon he’s snoring up a storm. 

“I love you,” Aramis whispers to him, kissing his ear. “And you, Ath.”

Athos just snores at him.


End file.
